


gentle hands give life to me

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Soft!, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: "Do you think this could have been you?" Virgil asks quietly, putting his arm along the back of the Jordan's chair, brushing the line of his shoulders. He turns his neck to watch Virgil, head resting on his bicep like it's something they do all the time, but it's not, is it? This is brand new, crossing boundaries that neither of them have dared to push. "Sitting here and watching instead of being out there. Not knowing what it's like to have the ball at your feet with millions of people around the world shouting your name. Never lifting that trophy and feeling like you've just won the biggest prize of them all."





	gentle hands give life to me

**Author's Note:**

> hi, back again! the prompt on tumblr was first kiss, and i'm sure that prompts aren't supposed to be 3,000 words long, but apparently i can't help myself so here you go!
> 
> feedback always appreciated, thank you for reading! xx

The party is still in full swing. 

Jordan doesn't think he's ever seen Anfield so buzzing, even when the Kop is waving their flags and singing at the top of their lungs, and that's saying something. Tonight, the stands are empty, but the one of the event rooms is packed to the brim with his teammates and their families, the club staff - from the coaches to the ladies who work in the canteen - and various other people associated with the club, no matter how vaguely or how long ago that was.

It's all a little overwhelming, to be honest. He'd estimate that he's seen a million different faces since he lifted the trophy, and he knows that there's a solid portion of them that don't even _like_ him, but there is a part of him that thinks they've all come to see him. He is the captain, after all, no matter what criticism has been thrown his way over the course of the season.

He needs air. Just five minutes, or maybe ten, to get away from Adam's chokehold grip around his neck as he tries to get him to dance or Bobby's phone camera in his face. He needs to collect his thoughts, to fill his lungs with fresh oxygen, and then he can face them all again.

It's not like he's complaining about it all. Quite the opposite, really, because all this fanfare makes it real. They wouldn't be celebrating if they hadn't won the Champions League, but they did and that's why there's an ungodly amount of Carlsberg stacked along the walls of Anfield, ready for someone to drink it all (probably Jurgen himself, Jordan thinks).

The party room is just past the home dressing room that Jordan feels like he spends most of his life in, but he doesn't stop there. He walks straight past, down the tunnel and towards the walk of champions. All of Liverpool's greatest achievements are immortalised on that few foot of space, and now, Jordan is a part of two of them: one League Cup victory back in 2012, and yesterday's Champions League trophy.

The latter hasn't been put on the wall yet, of course. There's still a five in the middle of Ol' Big Ears, and it feels like knowing a secret that nobody else does when he thinks of the cup sitting pride of place in the middle of the party a few doors away. His first trophy with the club was in his first season, and now this one is with him as captain.

It may have taken him a long time to get here, but at least he did it with pride.

He runs his fingertips around the outline of the trophy stuck to the wall and then around the number, tracing the shapes that he'd know anywhere. He's done this a thousand times before, thinking that he wanted to be the best he possibly could be, just to bring silverware back to this club that deserves it _so much_ – but he knows that this will probably be the last time.

When he comes back next season, it'll be a six instead of a five, and every time he looks at it, he will remember how it felt to lift the trophy. He'll remember the breathtaking pride that was rushing through his veins when the full time whistle went and he looked around at the tear-stained faces of his teammates. He'll remember what all the travelling fans sounded like when they were singing his name.

Forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, he keeps walking down the tunnel, through the double doors. He's taken this route so many times that he'd be able to do it with his eyes closed, but it still feels special, especially when he takes that first step onto the pitch.

It's dark in a way that almost disorients him. The floodlights are off because nobody's supposed to be there, not really, but he's Jordan Henderson, the captain of Liverpool FC and champion of Europe, so he figures he can do what he likes – if only just for tonight.

The night air is bitingly cold, slapping him awake after twenty-four hours of surviving on nothing but adrenaline and happiness. He's only had about an hour's sleep, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle on the plane, but he's not really tired. His eyes are stinging a little bit, but his mind refuses to shut off: it keeps reminding him of the massive achievement of only last night. 

He's far enough away from the party that he can't hear the shouting and the music and the laughter, and Anfield is so empty he can practically hear his thoughts bouncing off the plastic chairs. He's so used to having fifty thousand faces staring back at him, and the voices of fans make the place feel small. Now, though, the stadium feels huge, and Jordan feels like an ant compared to the vastness of the stadium. 

He eases himself into Jurgen's seat, the red upholstered leather cool even through the thick material of his joggers. He's been in these seats before, of course, but that's usually when he's been benched for a match and he can barely think through the disappointment that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. This is completely different.

_Could you be a manager? Do you want to do your coaching badges?_

These are questions he's been asked countless times before. From his friends, his family, his own teammates. They think he's got a knack for reading the game and would do a great job, what with his leadership skills and all, but Jordan doesn't really know if he could take the disappointment of losses. It's different, when he's got the armband on, because even though he's the captain, they each take a portion of the blame. Defence wasn't up to scratch, attackers couldn't finish. As manager, it'd be his fault and his alone, and he doesn't think he's strong enough for that.

It takes a special kind of person to become a manager, and Jurgen Klopp is the most special one of all. 

He's snapped out of his thoughts by someone approaching – he can hear them coming down the tunnel before he can even see the person, and he knows it's Virgil because he's been drinking since about forty-five minutes after the final whistle blew in Madrid, so being quiet is practically an impossible task for him right now. His heavy footsteps thunder against carpet that leads out onto the pitch, and Jordan can't help the smile that spreads across his face. 

"Alright, big man?" He calls out before Virgil has even stepped into view. His voice carries across the empty ground, and normally he can't even hear himself screaming instructions at his teammates, but tonight, he can hear the little laugh that Virgil huffs out and the creaking of the chair as he drops himself into the one next to Jordan.

"I was trying to be quiet!" Virgil says. He's pouting, a little bit, and there's a bottle of beer dangling from his fist. Jordan wants to put his best captain's voice on and tell him that he should slow down with the drink, but he can't quite bring himself to ruin the party. They are celebrating, after all, and Virgil's worked the hardest all season. He deserves this night. "How did you hear me?" 

Jordan laughs, knocking his knuckles against the bottle as a response. He doesn't think Virgil is aware quite how drunk he actually is; the alcohol is making his accent thicker and his words are slurring together. It somehow makes him even more attractive. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the sound of Virgil taking sips of his beer. It's nice – Jordan feels alone but in a good way, and he likes Virgil's company. The camaraderie makes him warm despite the biting chill in the air, and their arms brush every so often, sparking something that he can't really put a name to.

He's tried to put a name to it. For a while now, he's been trying to categorise his feelings, organise them and mark them up to put them in the right places in his mind, but he's not quite sure what it is and he doesn't know what he wants, only that he does want it. It's confusing, but at the same time, the most simple thing in the entire world.

He likes Virgil, and that's all there is to it.

"Come on," Virgil says suddenly, springing to his feet. He holds his hand out for Virgil to take, and the older man uses it to pull himself up. They're standing close, only an inch between their bodies, and it makes breath catch in Jordan's chest. He wants it so bad, but he doesn't know if Virgil does. He doesn't know if he's allowed to take it. "No point in sitting here all night, is there?"

Virgil doesn't drop his hand as they fall into step beside each other; his palm is rough and warm against Jordan's, and the tips of his fingers press hard bruises into the back of Jordan's hand. He wants the marks, to be able to look at them tomorrow and remember this. When it was him and Virgil against the world, and nobody was around to take that away from them.

They walk the length of the touchline, arms swinging between them, and Jordan's not even sure if Virgil has noticed that they're still holding hands, but he's not going to be the one to break the moment (if it even is a moment. He's not quite sure, because it is to _him_ , but it could mean pretty much next to nothing to Virgil).

"Have you had a good day?" He asks, just to stop the unsure thoughts swirling through his mind. He's tired of second guessing it all, wondering if the push and pull is real, if they actually have been dancing around each other for months. Countless nights have been spent tossing and turning in bed, asking himself if he's been imagining it and waiting for sleep to come.

Every single time, when the morning eventually rolls around, he hasn't got an answer and he hasn't slept for a single minute.

"Yeah, of course," Virgil says all in one breath. The excitement is coming off him in waves now; eyes bright and grin stretched across his face, and his cheeks are flushed from either the beer or the cold temperatures or the elation of winning. Jordan thinks it's a mixture of all three. "How could I not? We're European champions, Jord."

He says it like it's obvious, the roll of is eyes evident in his voice. Like he thinks that Jordan could ever forget the feeling of lifting the trophy, or the sight of Virgil with a winner's medal around his neck. Those are moments that he'll always remember, and he knows he'll go back to them, when things get difficult and he needs to feel good again, if only for a few seconds. 

"I know, idiot," he says, knocking his elbow against Virgil's ribs playfully. The younger man pretends to be hurt, gasping and pulling away from Jordan, but their hands are still linked and he just pulls him with him. Jordan stumbles a little, not expecting it, and lands right against Virgil's chest as his free hand comes up to steady himself. He can feel Virgil's heartbeat underneath his palm and the shift of his muscles as his other arm curls around Jordan's shoulders. He hugs him tight, for one second and then another, quick as a flash and gone before Jordan's really started to process what's going on.

He still feels the warmth of it, though. It floods through his veins and makes his mind hazy, focused on nothing but the man standing next to him. 

They reach the end of the pitch and Jordan expects them to turn left and keep walking, but Virgil untangles his hand and raises an eyebrow. There's a cheeky look on his face, but it's still a surprise when he climbs over the advertising boards (still graceful, somehow, despite how drunk he is) and into the Kop end.

"What are you doing?" Jordan asks. He can't stop himself smiling because it's so nice to see Virgil acting so young. Anfield may be empty but Virgil is still on the pitch, and Jordan always expects to see the furrow in the younger man's brow and the fire in his eyes when he's here. Now, he's just grinning, shoulders relaxed, and beckoning at Jordan to come over. "D'you really think I can get myself over there? I've had about an hour's sleep, Virg." 

"Don't be a spoilsport," Virgil says. He's pouting, lips pursed and trying to use his best puppy dog eyes with his arms stretched out, but he just looks ridiculous. Jordan doesn't know who he's really trying to kid, because he's never been able to say no to this man. "Come on, I'll help you over."

He rolls his eyes but takes Virgil's hands anyway, manoeuvring himself over the boards as carefully as possible, and then the younger man is leading them to two seats, right behind the goal. It feels weird viewing the pitch from this angle, seeing all of it and not just the man he's meant to be marking two feet in front of him. 

He imagines how it feels to be sitting here in a red shirt with a scarf wrapped around his neck and a flag in his hand, thousands of other like-minded fans around him. He imagines hearing the chants ringing out around him, countless people proudly yelling _we've conquered all of Europe, we're never gonna stop_. 

"Do you think this could have been you?" Virgil asks quietly, putting his arm along the back of the older man's chair, brushing the line of Jordan's shoulders. He turns his neck to watch Virgil, head resting on his bicep like it's something they do all the time, but it's not, is it? This is brand new, crossing boundaries that neither of them have dared to push. "Sitting here and watching instead of being out there. Not knowing what it's like to have the ball at your feet with millions of people around the world shouting your name. Never lifting that trophy and feeling like you've just won the biggest prize of them all."

Jordan doesn't even have to think about it. Ever since the first time he kicked a ball, aged three in the back garden with his dad, he knew that he was going to be a footballer. It didn't matter what it was going to take, because he was going to make sure that his name would be ringing out across stadiums across the world. He doesn't even hesitate when he says, "no."

"Me neither," Virgil says with a smile, turning his head to look at Jordan. Their gazes meet, head on and as forceful as a car crash, and there's so much unspoken in that one look. They're so different, but also so similar – they're both made for the game, a mirrored determination to be better threading them together, wanting to lead their teams and bring trophies home. That's why they get on so well, and that's why they respect each other, too.

Virgil starts shivering at that minute. He always seems to run a few degrees cooler than Jordan and his thin hoodie isn't doing enough to counteract the alcohol coursing through his veins, and he looks pointedly towards the tunnel, silently asking if they can go back inside.

"Come on," Jordan says, letting out a long-suffering sigh and getting to his feet. Virgil follows and again, somehow gracefully gets back over the advertising boards, letting Jordan take his hands to get over, too. The older man feels more at home with the grass underneath his feet, more confident and ready to take on the world even though he's not playing, and he bumps his shoulder into Virgil's, revelling in the small smile he gets in return.

They don't make it very far, though. As far as the goal posts, actually, and then Virgil stops suddenly, and Jordan isn't expecting it so he walks straight into Virgil's back, hands coming up to the younger man's waist to steady himself.

Before he can ask what's going on, Virgil spins on his heels. There's a certain look in his eyes, dark and glinting, and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip before he speaks. "Jordan," he says quietly, voice gravelly and unsure. "I really admire you, you know." 

"Yeah, I know," Jordan says. He feels a little bit self-conscious, but he doesn't know why – Virgil isn't shy about complimenting him, especially in interviews, and he's read and heard it all, but something about this feels like it means _more_. It's intimate and gentle, like the way Virgil's hand slides under his t-shirt, fingers spidering across the bare skin stretched across his ribs. "What-"

But then he's cut off by a kiss as Virgil crowds him against the post. The metal is cold against his back but Virgil's mouth is so, so warm, tongue sliding along the back of Jordan's teeth and hands all over him. They're pressed flush together at every point, Virgil's thigh between his legs and his fingers curled into the collar of Virgil's hoodie.

This is it. This is what he's been waiting for.

He breaks the kiss with a sigh, not meaning for it to sound so needy, but Virgil loves the sound judging by the way his hand comes up to cup Jordan's face. His thumb is brushing along the bristles of the older man's beard as he leans back in for another kiss, this one soft and nothing really more than a peck, but it leaves Jordan feeling just as flushed.

"I meant it," Virgil murmurs quietly, pressing his lips to anywhere he can reach: Jordan's cheek, his forehead, his nose and his jaw. It's so sweet that it makes Jordan's heart ache, and he slides his hand around the back of Virgil's neck, cradling him like he's something delicate. "I really, really like you, Jord."

Jordan's starting to understand that now.

"I really, really like you, too," Jordan says, and every single ounce of self-doubt he felt not even five minutes ago leaves his body. Because this is him and this is Virgil; them, together, finally. Everything is laid out bare now.

They're on the pitch at Anfield, the place where they met and the place where they work best together, in the middle of a stolen moment, and the stadium may be empty but it feels full with something tender, too. The stars are sparkling above them and their friends are inside, and Jordan doesn't feel like he's ever felt a sense of _belonging_ like it. 

But this isn't a stolen moment. Not anymore. It's more than that, now, because this is a moment that's going to be repeated, stretching out into hundreds or maybe even thousands of them, and as he leans up to kiss Virgil again, there's only one thought running through his mind:

_This moment could last forever – if you'll have me._

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
